


Desk Job

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-20
Updated: 2012-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-31 12:15:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I can't honestly remember - did we see the pictures I call "The Disintegration of Mycroft Holmes" before "A Scandal in Belgravia" aired? I think so...? Well, I wrote this trying to explain how that scene would have felt in my canon. I have a different reason for it, which would be a horrible spoiler if I explained, but I wrote this anyway. </p><p>I mean. Mycroft without his jacket. It can't be good, can it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desk Job

Mycroft sat at the desk, his collar loosened, his tie slack, trying to think it all through for the last time. The desk was clear now of all paperwork. Everything had been tidied away, into the worn wooden box covered in green leather, the lock already sealed. Anthea would be along to take it away in the morning, and by then Mycroft would already be in his office in London, going over the census information of the camps in Kenya, taking the call from the Canadian Prime Minister, and making sure that the news on the Asian markets hadn’t leaked. There would, no doubt, be other quandaries brought to him, but all of them would have to wait. The top drawer of the desk held all of his mobiles but one; the one he could never be without. It would be with him through the night and into tomorrow morning, predictably left on his office desk when the time came.

He held the phone in his hand for a moment, staring at the blank screen, running his thumb over the keypad. Such a small device. He could use it to bring down a government, easily. Arrange for a man’s exile. Find the number of satellites trained on any particular location in the world. And, in fact, such things had indeed been done using this phone. It was both a tool and a punishment. The freedom to access the world, the power to control the skies, and the burden of having to do so. It tied him to the world, tightly, pressing him down with its weight. So much responsibility, so many consequences. 

He reached out, picked up the crystal brandy snifter by his left hand. There wasn’t much left in it. He swirled it, holding the stem carefully, the bowl rotating in precise circles, an impermanent hypocycloid in the twilight of the room. The scent of the dark liquid was fainter now, and he tipped his head back to pour the last of it into his mouth, swallowing carefully, letting the warmth of it trace a path down his throat. He wrapped his fingers around the sharp crystal pattern of the glass, pressing the points against his palm. then setting it back down on the desk, turning his attention back to the silent phone.

It had been two hours. He was certain. His mind tracked back over the reports, the signatures, the notations, the summaries, everything he’d read or processed since he had sent the message. It all added up to one hundred seventeen minutes. Three minutes short of two hours. There had been ample time for a response. Two hours of silence meant there would be no response, as there was no one to respond, most likely. 

He put the phone down on the desk, gently, without making a sound, and squared it absently, the bottom edge parallel with the edge of the table, and the same distance from the edge of the table’s leaf. His fingertips traced the glossy surface of the screen, and he realised he was reluctant to let it go, and deliberately lifted his hand away. He rested his elbows on the the desk, then, and breathed, resisting the urge to simply hide his face in his hands. This was just one more step in the journey, one more move in the game. Things would happen, of one sort or another, and he would follow the necessary course. He had made all the decisions that were in his power, and the next move, whatever it would be, was his opponent’s.

Mycroft Holmes sat at the desk, and breathed. 

  



End file.
